Lazarus
by tenereamor
Summary: Sherlock was always an exception for him, even when he was gone. (could be follow up to my other story Falling Water, but totally fine as stand alone)


_Okay, so second story! Yay! This could technically be a follow up to Falling Water but is also completely stand alone. Kinda concerned about OOCness so i'd really love people's feedback on that if y'all have time. And apparently I'm found of "second verse same as the first" 'cause like Falling Water, the second to last part is also from a fan art that I no longer have the URL to, but absolutely loved. If it's from ours I totally didn't mean to steal it, your art work is completely amazing and please ignore what could be my complete butchering of it!_

_Also, again with the "second verse, first verse"; the title is again from my brother, less depressing this time. Lazarus rises from the the dead in the bible, for an explanation._

_Still don't own Sherlock or the unidentified art work referenced._

_Please comment!_

_ **7/10/13 EDIT- the lines dividing I guess the "parts" apparently didn't make it when I first published this, hope they do this time! (Thanks to **Intemporel **for the review that prompted me to go back and check this! I did mean for it to not be immediately after his death when Sherlock visits Mycroft but I guess it's not as obvious without the dividers! Thanks for the review!)**_

* * *

He's in a meeting when the door swings open smoothly on well-oiled hinges. Anthea's face is carefully impassive, "Sir…something's…well, something's come up."

_(Something's wrong,_ his mind whispers. He shoves it down.)

Striding out with barely a word, his eyes flit over towards her and she's not looking at her phone. His mouth goes dry, "Yes?"

"It's Sherlock," her voice drops low _(low is bad, voice never drops for his normal shenanigans)_ and he's pursing his lips and moving down the hallway, before she can add anything, droning silently about Sherlock's antics.

_(He's never really been one for the mindset of "ignoring makes it untrue" but customary behavior is hard to maintain in regards to his younger brother)_

* * *

She tells him in the car. The words shattering the silence sharply and he jerks towards her at the same time that the car pulls to a stop, blue lights flashing and uniform clad officers milling about outside the window. For a moment he's certain she's abruptly gained a proclivity for cruel pranks but in the intermittent light her impassive visage is also morose.

_(For a moment he wants to crumple and it's such an unfamiliar feeling he almost does)_

He doesn't blank on time; he's perfectly coherent of his actions and surroundings as he exits the car, striding determinedly towards the garishly bright yellow tape keeping back the curious spectators _(their curiosity grates against him, another unfamiliar feeling)_. Their gaze slips to him and he brushes past.

"Sir," a voice stops him and he turns to find a detective, walking towards him. Watching over his brother means he can recognize the man but the sadness marring his features and seeming to weigh down on his entire frame would also point to this being the long-suffering detective inspector Lestrade that his brother holds-_held (he almost pauses at the tense change)_ in high regard. Lestrade fixes him with a wary, gaze, "you need to stay behind the tape."

He clears his throat, eyes being drawn to the pool of blood staining the sidewalk before he can stop them and he can't keep the grief and pain from his voice, "He's my brother."

Lestrade stares at him, "Oh, Mycroft right?"

He nods, silent.

The detective mumbles something then wanders away and he doesn't say anything else, also wandering deeper into the fray of officers, there's too many for a suicide but many of them have grim looks and he wonders at the impact his brother had on all these people.

John is sitting on the back of an ambulance, he notices, customary medic blanket tossed to the side, in favor of the oversized long coat draped over his shoulders but the doctor seems too lost to notice his presence. Whether he would have a positive or negative reaction is not an interest of his. He wanders more, perceiving a soft blue scarf hidden underneath a police car, overlooked and he kneels down, figures grasping the familiar material then tucks it into his coat pocket.

Nostalgia is not a common indulgence of his. It's unsurprising to find Sherlock as the exception.

* * *

There's a notepad full of scribbles _(he's not his brother, different methods, maybe that was always the problem)_ on his desk. Lines are crossed out, others darkened and others circled, connected with swift lines, webbing together.

It's a possibility; nearly everything is, especially with his brother.

_(a part of him accuses of gripping onto pointless hopes and wishes, like a child)_

Faking it wouldn't be hard, witnesses easy to find but he's left questioning the girl form the morgue, Molly Hooper, and her involvement.

And John's presence.

Because Molly doesn't seem like much but Sherlock had a way of going to her for what he needed. And because John wouldn't just let Sherlock disappear, he doesn't know, but she might.

It's not something he should be wasting his time on, but his duty to country was the second duty installed in him.

* * *

He's walking alone, rain pattering down, and his phone buzzes.

_I'm alive. In case you care.  
-SH_

The umbrella his holding creaks a touch as his weight pushes on it.

_(He wants to type back, asking if he didn't think he cared why he would bother to text. But he doesn't)_

His response is typed out rapidly.

_I always care.  
-MH_

Barely a moment passes before a buzz announces a response.

_Turn around.  
-SH_

He turns, pale skin, long coat, unruly curls. A moment passes, the two locked staring at each other before he strides forward, two steps and wraps an arm around his younger brother who actually leans into the contact.

Sentimentality is not something common to either Holmes brother. Neither are surprised that the other is one of their few exceptions.

.

.

_fin._


End file.
